


Empty (From the Loss of My Soul)

by TT_Angst_Queen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dark, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TT_Angst_Queen/pseuds/TT_Angst_Queen
Summary: “Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life, for his country.”Like he just handed it over with a nod and a ‘Thank you’, and just did it with a smile, so happy to just die-





	Empty (From the Loss of My Soul)

 

* * *

 

 

_“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life, for his country.”_

 

When Bucky had come home with the draft letter, Steve hadn’t been surprised. Shocked, yes, but… not surprised. They had been drafting any able-bodied man they could find into the War and Bucky, with his amazing health, strong body, was exactly the kind of man they wanted on the front lines.

 

Bucky had come home with the letter in a limp hand, looking dazed and so, so scared. Steve had taken the letter out of his hand and must have re-read the damn thing over a hundred times- but the ink on the paper never changed what it said; and Bucky didn’t stop sobbing until he passed out on the only bed in their tiny, drafty apartment in the middle of Brooklyn.

 

The thing was, Bucky never wanted to join the War.

 

He never wanted to leave his sisters, his family, his life.

 

He never wanted to die.

 

So hearing this voice-over, this documentary, say Bucky _“Gave his life-”_

 

‘Give his life.'

 

Like he just handed it over with a nod and a ‘Thank you’, and just did it with a smile, so happy to just die-

 

Steve learned a lot about the future, in those first few weeks.

 

One of those things was that that they knew nothing about him.

 

They knew nothing about Bucky.

 

They weren’t there when Steve had to be dragged almost catatonic from the train by Dum-Dum, while Morita and Dernier resolutely ignored the fact that they had seen their Captain bodily throw Zolo out of the hole where Bucky had fallen. Jacques had taken one look at the glazed, red eyes of his leader, and no Bucky, and turned to Gabe, and they shared a look, then nodded.

 

His men didn’t think Steve saw, but he did.

 

They weren’t there when the Commandos had lied straight to Phillips' face, had told their superior officer that Zola had tried to fire at Cap after Bucky had fallen, and the force of the HYDRA modified gun had thrown him clean out of the train.

 

Neither were they there when Phillips had looked at them with a grim face, noticing the lack of Barnes and the devastated Steve Rogers, and swallowed their Cockamamy Bullshit story and signed off on it, all the while knowing that it was flimsy at best, and laughable at best.

 

But it was War, and you couldn’t say that Captain America had killed their potential asset in a fit of Rage when his lover was killed.

 

They weren’t there when he was aiming that plane at the ice in a nosedive, relief filling him at the thought of finally being with his lover again, all the while playing up an act with a woman he pretended to love for appearances sake, even though he had not known her long enough, between Missions, War, and prancing around on stage as a dancing monkey to say more than a couple sentences at a time.

 

He talked to Peggy for a total of a couple hours worth of conversation.

 

They all thought Captain America died while defending his country and confessing his love to a woman he had fallen for in the middle of a war-torn world.

 

They knew _nothing_.

 

Staring at the Smithsonian exhibit, walking through the pieces of a past long gone, long buried, Steve thought he should feel angry. He thought he should feel sad, feel devastated.

 

But as he looked at the large picture of Bucky, grim-faced and unsmiling, He felt…

 

Tired.

 

Dead.

 

Empty.

 

When they took him out of the ice, when they defrosted him, they had thought they had saved him- brought him back to life.

 

They didn’t.

 

Steve Rogers died seventy years ago in the ice.

 

What they took from it was a breathing corpse.

 

* * *

 

 

The Soldier woke.

 

It was slow, unlike every other time he woke, with no hands grasping at his arms and urging him into the Chair, no voices spitting out his name with disgust as they gave him orders and told him to comply.

 

He woke alone.

 

The Red Room was empty, much like his mind, full of cobwebs and dust, long since abandoned, and not even a whisper of movement to tell him of remaining life, vermin or otherwise.

 

The Soldier wonders how long it had been since he had been frozen, this time.

 

The Soldier had no orders, no handlers, no person to tell him how he was supposed to react at being forgotten, at being left alone.

 

The Soldier thought that it was a monumentally stupid move to leave him.

 

The power in The Red Room was long since out, the Cryofreeze could have sustained itself for months; that it turned off now meant it must have been just that long since power had been cut.

 

They would have cut it the moment they shut The Red Room down.

 

The date on the closest paper read:  _July 4th, 2005_.

 

For some reason, the date made something itch in the back of his mind.

 

The Soldier ignored it.

 

It was not important.

 

The Soldier thought, sitting in the dark, dusty room for hours, maybe days- time meant nothing- and then stood.

 

He left.

 

He wandered.

 

He learned.

He was _free_.

 

He took his first contract two months later.

 

The Soldier only knew about being what he was named for.

 

The Soldier was good at it.

 

The Soldier still did not remember anything.

 

The Soldier didn’t care.

 

The Soldier told himself that every day.

 

He was a liar by trade.

 

* * *

 

  


Steve drifted.

 

He spoke to his new ‘team’.

 

He trained with them.

 

He sometimes ate with them.

 

But he didn’t live with them.

 

Tony had offered them each a floor in his tower, made to their individual tastes, made especially for them. His team accepted.

 

Steve refused.

 

They had been confused, but when he told them he just couldn't handle the amount of ‘future’ that the Tower exuded, and being in the middle of busy New York, they nodded, all sympathetic smiles and pats on the shoulder.

 

The truth was, is that he just wanted to be alone.

 

He had nightmares when he slept. He thrashed and screamed and ripped his covers more often than not, trying to escape the hold of the terrible dreams that haunted him as he slept, and woke dripping with sweat and his lungs gasping for air, like it was 1939 and he was a skinny little shrimp with asthma again.

 

He would lay in his bed for hours until his bladder screamed at him and he relived it.

 

Then he would move to the couch, and he would sit and turn on the television and stare right through it, his mind blank, his face blanket.

 

He would end up eating when his stomach roared and his head felt light.

 

Sometimes not even then.

 

He had passed out a few times.

 

Had hit his head on the counter on his way down on a Friday, and woke up at noon on the following Monday.

 

He probably should have been concerned.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to care enough.

 

It was a month after the battle when he began to notice the little things;

 

His rug would be shifted a little, the tassels moved and ruffled.

His suede couch would have a mark like someone had tried to wipe out a handprint.

 

His window would be open a crack when he didn’t remember opening it.

 

Little things.

 

They would be gone when he woke up.

 

Like it never happened.

 

It was a little disappointing, really, that it took this long for him to go insane.

 

The feeling of metal fingers at his throat as he fell asleep was more real, but always right before he inevitably passed out, so he wasn’t even sure he was imagining that, too.

 

He didn’t really care.

 

Even when Fury told him he had a metal-armed assassin named The Winter Soldier after him.

 

“Okay.”

 

He didn’t really care.

 

He was tired.

 

Empty.

 

Release from this hell would be nice.

 

* * *

 

 

The Soldier found himself hesitating, on killing his Mark: Captain America; Rogers, Steven Grant.

 

He didn’t know why the man felt familiar, why the blond caused his head to hurt and his left arm to ache.

 

But the Soldier had shaken his head, after weeks of hesitation, and finally, finally taken action.

 

He didn’t remember why he hesitated.

 

* * *

 

 

The feeling of a metal hand on his throat was familiar.

 

Steve welcomed it, and when he opened his eyes, he knew he must have actually gone crazy.

 

But it was nice, he thought, as the hand squeezed tighter, and black spots filled his vision.

 

He would be free.

 

He would be with the real version of his attacker.

 

“Bucky…”

 

The world went black.

 

The metal hand spasmed.

  
“ _Steve..._?”

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
